Not the Storm Before the Calm
by AiriKatsu
Summary: #2 of WWII One-shots: They've been dancing around it for years; neither of them want to admit there may be something more between them than they have led the world, and each other, to believe. France/England or Francis/Arthur


This one is, _and I sigh_, for me more than anything. I adore this couple and I wish I saw more of it. As a Canadian, this seems canon to me, and I am both English and French. My friends call me 'opposing forces'. I would dedicate this to _Ma Angleterre_ again, but that just weirds me out because I don't think of her, cough, in this manner… I liked this couple before we decided she was kinda more like England than anyone… Or at least in my opinion. Yes, you guessed it, I'm France.

Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia  
Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN OR PROFIT FROM HETALIA, THIS IS PURELY FANMADE FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES  
Genre: Romance/Drama  
Pairings: Francis/Arthur  
Rating: M for Mature  
Warning: Smut and romance, human names, different languages, references to the second world war.

One-shot Collection:

The Waking Up is the Hardest Part- Germany/N. Italy

**Not the Storm Before the Calm- France/England**

Crawling Towards the Pillowcase- Cuba/Canada

The Air You Took And the Breath You Left- Russia/China

But All I Feel is Alone- America/Japan (May or may not be written)

xXx

_Not the Storm Before the Calm- France/England (Francis/Arthur)_

XxX

"You're a sin." Arthur murmured in the calming aftereffects; his arm over his eyes to either hide his embarrassment or to shield them from the early morning light. His hair was tousled and his lips felt like they're numb from friction- but he couldn't complain.

Francis was lazily lying on top of him; his arms crossed across Arthur's own chest, and his stubble was tickling him right below where his heart is. Those normally mischievous blue eyes were watching him with a calm adoration. He was tracing small designs on the marred skin of the island country, simply enjoying the idleness of their morning together before the world began to turn again and they had to face this new day.

"Mmn?" The Frenchman made a low sound in his throat that vibrated directly against England's own skin and it made him shiver. "Which one, I wonder…?" He asked as more of a passing thought then an actual curious question. His hands slipped from their position; one simply resting against Arthur's hip and the other felt around as if smoothing down the soft skin beneath it.

"Wrath…?" He pressed a gentle kiss against Arthur's collarbone, "greed…?" Another feather-light touch followed the last, a little lower. "Sloth…?" The green-eyed nation was sure he felt a tender pressure of velvet tongue on that kiss, and sure enough when Francis breathed the next word against his skin he could feel the cooling result. The next few were each followed with the same chaste pressure as those before them, "Pride…? Envy…? Gluttony…?" England made the mistake of meeting those devilish eyes when the final kiss was pressed atop his slowly beating crescendo. "Lust…?"

He tried to roll his eyes in an attempt to hide his mortification but France knew him too well and chuckled. He shifted and tried to detach himself from the blonde on top of him, with not too much luck. Finally he growled out, "**gluttony**, you silly git, now get off of me."

Francis simply smiled that infuriating smile of his that Arthur wanted to punch off his face and continued his ministrations. "_Mon cheri_, I believe that you are correct." Now Arthur was sure he somehow going to turn this around on him; the Frenchman went on in fake despair. "I have come to see that you, _Angleterre_, have seduced me so completely that I cannot get enough of you. I suppose my selfish wish for you is an imperfection to many…"

And for the lack of anything to respond with, England threw both of the heels of his palms into his tightly closed eyelids and groaned. "How do you manage to take every insult and turn it into something disgustingly romantic? _Bloody hell_…"He sighed out the last words and then all but shoved Francis off of him.

"Get dressed, will you?" He was already pulling his pants up and fishing around for his shirt while France lay there in a dejected position on the bed.

"For once, Arthur," he purred out, and those large eyebrows furrowed in response, "I wish that it would rain all day, and you would spend it with me indoors. Perhaps we would make breakfast together, and you would lounge around in nothing but my shirt and- oomph!" That shirt he had been speaking of made direct contact into his face thanks the other man who was blushing insanely.

"Oh shut it, I'm tired of hearing your stupid fantasies." But both of them knew it was just for show, secretly this was exactly what the younger man wished he would someday swallow his pride and relish in. That day, unfortunately, was a long day off and for now they both had to keep their affections secret from the world, their bosses, the other nations, and most importantly- from each other.

Francis finally complied with the Englishman's earlier demand and began to redress, his voice coy. "Arthur, you don't seem as hung-over as you normally do. Perhaps I no longer need to get you drunk before we share a bed?"

It was a dangerous dance that they slipped along the outskirts of; at first it was an accident- like Francis had explained. They would go out drinking, someone would fall and before long they would be kissing their way out of their clothes and into one of their beds. Slowly, over the course of the wars, and rebellions, and depressions those one-night stands turned into pity sex, then hate sex, and then back into drunken passions. Never once did either of them admit they simply _enjoyed_ it.

The previous night's activities were because of Francis and his wish to thank the Englishman for saving his _precious_ country from the German onslaught. He had taken him to that same pub they always went to, to the same bartender who rolled her eyes at them, and offered to buy him a few drinks in his insatiable gratitude. He had sung praises all night long; showing his appreciation for how Arthur had given his people hope and saved him from the impending doom of Germany and his country's horrible fashion sense.

"Juste imagine! Moi_ in that stuffy moss color!"_ The French country had blanched the previous night, shaking his head to rid himself of the mere image of it.

"_What's wrong with green_?" Arthur had demanded in his pretend drunkenness. "_I think it's… well it's…_" He paused. "_Uniformly!_" He nodded, as if that made perfect sense and then focused his attention back onto his drink. Okay, perhaps he hadn't really been _pretending_ at that point, but he had sobered up before Francis had taken him home.

Needless to say, the green-eyed man didn't feel the need to grace that with an answer and instead threw open the door and marched his way out of Francis' home expertly. He hated the fact that the housemaid, Marie, greeted him warmly like he belonged there, and as a gentleman he had to return the sentiments. Just as he had closed the front door behind him, his bedmate made his grand appearance.

"_Marie, ma chere, __est-il déjà?_" (Did he leave?) Francis asked her in a kind, respectful manner as she sighed after Arthur's retreating form on the lawn. Her deep brunette hair had a few graceful strands of gray now mixing in with the same bun she always swept it up into as she worked. She had known Francis and Arthur for quite some time. For a human especially, because she had been in the Bonnefoy household since she was seventeen.

"_Oui monsieur, quand restera t-il pour le petit déjeuner?_"(Yes, sir, when will he be staying for breakfast?) She looked rather put out at his hasty withdrawal, and every time she knew he was there she would hope this to be the morning when he would try one of her delicious meals. In irritation she turned towards the master of the house, "_Quand allez-vous enfin lui faire part de vos affections?_"(Are you going to tell him how you feel?) She pushed the blonde's hair from its awkward position in a motherly way and then gestured for him to have a seat with a wistful sigh. "_Ça fait tellement longtemps_…" (It's been so long…)

He knew she was right, it was becoming ridiculous, but he could not get Arthur to take him seriously. "_Je ne sais pas. Les Anglais sont si capricieux_." (I don't know, the English are so fickle)

She didn't believe him for a moment, but instead of pushing it they both let it slide in favor of breakfast.

X

The meeting a week later did nothing for anybody in the psychological department. Germany had taken responsibility for everything, Japan was still in the hospital, and everyone was still tired and worn out from the effects the war had on their country to say much of everything. They all knew it wasn't Ludwig's fault; he had just been following orders so there was no reason to be overly angry with him. Besides that, everyone noticed an alteration in the blonde as he addressed the room, his eyes warmly shifting back to Feliciano as he spoke. Like every apology was for _him_, and everything had this underlying _promise_ to it that made everyone wonder if they should clear out and give them a minute.

Francis had tried to find Arthur before the meeting, but he had ignored him when he called his name, then sat as far away as possible during the meet.

Then, of course, there was also Canada, whom preoccupied Francis' attention with his shy glances beside him at Miguel; who was leaning on his elbow whispering something to the Canadian in the Cuban dialect of Spanish. The room was filled with hostile chills, romantic undertones, or pure boredom from everyone else. Needless to say they got no work done and they left the meeting relatively early.

France caught Feliciano and Ludwig behind the building sharing a tender kiss after, and he almost thought about interrupting but then he felt the biggest urge to find the object of his own affections and do the exact same thing.

He found him talking to a sulking America. Or rather, he was berating him about something with his hands on his hips and his thick eyebrows wrinkled in that funny expression that the Frenchman could never take seriously. He snuck up behind him, and the youngest nation saw him approaching. He gestured for him to keep quiet; then mouthed for him to sneak away as he would 'distract Arthur'.

"I cannot believe that you- what the-?!" In mid-sentence the taller man spun him around and, without giving him anything more than a couple seconds to realize who it was, pressed his mouth firmly against his arch-rival's. In surprise Arthur gasped and Francis slipped his tongue in to play inside England's mouth. With one crack of his eye he saw Alfred was long gone, already making the bend around the building.

Finally breaking apart for air Francis grabbed both sides of the younger man's face and bumped his nose against his affectionately. "You should really go easier on him, _mon amour_."

With something akin to a snarl the shorter of the two tried to furiously push him off with all his might. Without anything to steady himself France had to let go and even stumbled back a foot. He started at him disapprovingly and sighed as if England had no right to react this way.

"You- You little twat!" Ignoring the fact that he was older and should point that out, the blonde let him continue, "how dare you do that in front of-…" He trailed off, grounding his teeth together. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Here goes, he thought as he tried to make his voice sound as earnest as possible. "I'm showing you my undiluted affection." He reached forward and gently traced along Arthur's jaw-line. "_Je t'adore__._"

Those green eyes narrowed dangerously and his hand was swatted away, "enough of this nonsense. If you're looking for a lay look somewhere else, I am tired of your games." And with complete dismissal he talked around him and out of sight.

Well, that didn't go as planned. He threw his head back and stared in wonder at the sky as he mumbled, "are we really _this_ doomed?"

x

It would be about four days before he saw Francis again, he had tried the first two days to contact him and explain himself. After the third day he had stopped completely. Arthur was _almost_ concerned, _almost_ put out over the lack of trying. Still, the intent of their meeting this time was strictly business. Francis had rushed to his house in the rain that had seemed to widespread across the whole world to engulf it completely. Banging until the Englishman yelled at him through the door to stop it, and then all but throwing the object open and nearly hitting the soaked man.

"Arthur!" He gasped out in a rush, "have you seen _Mathieu_? I cannot find him anywhere…"

A scowl, "as in, Canada, Matthew? No, why would I have seen him?"

Eyelashes fluttered shut in what appeared to be prayer. Francis ducked his head and placed his cold palm against his own cheek. "I fear the worst, I haven't seen him in days, and he and I were supposed to meet yesterday. Not even his boss knows where he is. Maybe he was kidnapped? It's possible, isn't it? _Que dois-je faire?_"

Arthur stepped out of his way and without a word he walked over to his phone. Francis' eyebrows were knitted in worry, and he had followed him into the house in curiosity closing the door behind him. He quickly dialed a number and waited, naught three rings later and a gruff voice picked up on the other line.

"Cuba," he greeted in a cold manner, "do you have Canada there?" There was silence and then, "fine, then. Tell him he should inform his boss when he's off to shag someone."Click.

The older of the two simply stared at him in shock, feeling a little silly for not thinking of that sooner. Then again, in his hysteria he hadn't been thinking properly, he was so worried in dreading that maybe someone was getting revenge from the war. With a sigh of relief, the taller man broke out into an eased smile; at last he could relax. Sometimes Francis really had to take a step back and admire this about the younger nation; he always was the definition of the word calm. He hardly ever became upset; unless someone had done something horrible to someone he cared for; aka America.

"Right then, out you go." He abruptly broke the silence by grabbing the Frenchman by the upper arm and proceeding to drag him out the front door.

"_Attends!_" jostled out of his thoughts, Francis found himself face to face with the entrance and didn't quite know why the other nation was in such a rush to get rid of him. He easily broke out of the hold the green-eyes gentleman had on him and turned to face the other country. "I have been trying to get a hold of you too!" He accused, taking a step back from the large wooden entry and closer to the Englishman he was opposite of.

It appeared that the big-browed man did not want anything to do with him. The lack of patience was spreading around him like an aura; especially since he had his eyes closed and looked like he was counting to ten. The visitor took this opportunity to move nearer.

"Please, might I stay and talk?"

"No!" Growled England angrily, eyes snapping open and body rearing back as he realized how close the other was. He growled and pointed to the door, "get out you frog!"

"Please." He begged, taking Arthur's hand and bringing it to his lips to kiss, "we need to talk about this."

He tore his whole appendage away. With dismay the elder realized this was becoming a common trend between them, and felt his heart sink a little when the short haired man took a defiant step back. Eyes hardening; Arthur lifted his chin and glared at him in the most intimidating manner he could muster. France had to admit he had seen America cave on the other side of this look; but he was not going to keep putting up with this forever. He felt his own irritation begin to rise, and tried desperately to control it. He was done with his asinine dance, and he had figured maybe England was done playing it too. He wanted it to be over; he was beginning to resent this act he had to portray.

Arthur had seen him angry just as many times before, and he was a force to be reckoned with when he was. He was known to be a lover, not a fighter, but pretty soon he was just going to beat the damn brat in front of him so he couldn't keep on running away.

"Arthur," he began in what he was impressed to find was a rather intimidating tone, "I cannot believe you are being such a…" He looked off to the side with a frown and gestured with his hand as if to look for the right word, "well to put it lightly a bitch." He didn't even let him get a word in edgeways, and took a menacing step forward to silence him. "I have been trying to talk to you about this for years and you continue to be incredibly rude to me when I try to be nice and have a simple conversation."

Arthur looked absolutely irate that France had the nerve to say that, "_a simple conversation_?" He seethed out, beginning to pace as he mocked the other country. "Oh, like that one a week ago? You practically _sexually assaulted_ me in front of Alfred!" He threw up his hands them let them fall to his sides in an exaggerated exasperation. Then when he realized that he was actually egging the other man on, he clenched his fist and tried to calm himself. "I don't even know why I'm retaliating. I want you out of here, _now_."

"I am not leaving until you actually listen to me, _Angleterre_." He responded in kind, and stayed stubbornly where he was. "You need to tell me one thing, and depending on your answer I will leave."

"What is it then?" He all but snarled in vexation, his weight shifting to his left side, and he crossed his arms to await the answer.

This was it, he realized, the make it or break it question. Suddenly all the anger melted away and he felt meek and unsure. He fell out of his defensive stance, which caught the owner of the home off guard, and he was now being watched warily. His heart leapt up in his throat to choke his words, but he had to swallow it down. It was almost ridiculous how when it came down to it he found it insanely hard to slip into his normal façade and calm his racing heartbeat as he questioned him. He wanted to seem like he was in control, like the response of the Englishman would not break him into a million pieces.

"How do you feel towards me?"

The words came out a sensual whisper, and they had a strange effect on the normally proud nation. He turned his head to the side and stared off at the door, probably to try and formulate a response. There was a small pregnant pause before he seemed to decide on the reply, and cleared his throat. He paced towards the cabinet- to find something to straighten so he could occupy his hands as he spoke.

"That's simple then; we hate each other. Have since we were little. We've been rivals since I can remember." He aligned a picture frame as much as he could with hands that were quivering, and even his voice sounded a little off-key and horribly practiced.

"_Non_… "Francis was behind him, being far more assertive then England was used to him being. Wasn't this the time they normally starting throwing verbal daggers at each other? Instead France did something different. He grabbed his shoulders and forced him to face the older nation; to look at him directly. "That's not what I meant; I want to know how you feel for me. Tell me to my face, Arthur, I want to know if I mean anything to you."

But those eyes still stayed stubbornly off to the side, and they closed. Had Francis really seen the sparkle of tears beginning to form? "Why…?" He whispered in a defeated tone as his shoulders slumped, "why do you always make this so damn hard?" He reached up and wrapped his hands around Francis' own, to try and delicately pry them off his shoulders. "Don't you think we ought to know by now? That we should have learned something after all this time?"

"Learned what?" He pressured helplessly; his hands were becoming weak and heavy. He was starting to feel all his insides were twisting unpleasantly as his heart fell through his diaphragm and into his abdomen somewhere.

It took the next minute of absolute silence before he realized they were both breathing heavily; and yet neither of them had done anything that would make them feel this flushed and antsy. He had been called the country of love and passion, but he was pretty sure he had never felt this before. He was not used to being on the other side of the coin, of the anticipation. Now it felt like all those years of seduction meant nothing if he couldn't get this one man to admit to the feelings he knew they shared.

"What about you then?" Arthur finally turned the tables around and looked at him accusingly, their hands still locked about his shoulders. "How do you feel about me?"

When France broke out into a gentle smile, England knew he was doomed. He wasn't sure if he wanted to put on a guard just in case the other man laughed in his face, or if he should be feeling like his heart was going to palpitate out of his chest. Still, the blue-eyed man was staring at him in an unnerving manner, and he was starting to feel like he shouldn't have given him a chance to ask the question.

If Arthur didn't feel the same then Francis would be hanging his heart out to dry, but it was still worth a shot since they had come this far. He glided his hands from England's shoulders up until he was cradling his neck, then tracing them up until his palms were cupping the back of Arthur's skull, thumbs grazing over his scalp. Those green eyes were watching him with a guarded expression, with disbelief and anxiety mixing in. He seemed to be leaning ever so slightly into the touch, and he trusted him enough to let his hands drop from holding Francis'.

He leaned in, so he could gaze deeply into his long-time rival's eyes, perhaps will him to give a favorable reply. "That's simple then." He mocked the big-browed man in front of him as he mirrored his previous words, "I love you; I have since we were little, since I can remember." He closed his eyes and let out the pent up breath he didn't even know he was holding in. "But now, _mon amour_, you see my problem. _J'ai besoin de savoir ce que tu ressens à mon égard_" (I need to know how you feel about me)

Arthur grabbed his hand suddenly, and he wasn't sure what he was expecting when he snapped his eyes open to watch him. It looked like the Englishman wasn't sure himself as to what he wanted to do with that arm, but then he curled his own hand around it and pursed his lips into a straight line.

"We're horrible for each other." He whispered into Francis' fingertips, and then when he opened his eyes they were almost glassy, staring off into something faraway. "I don't even know how to act normal around you. I wouldn't know the first thing about this stupid relationship crap everyone keeps spewing as they prance about."

He swallowed thickly, and the taller of the two was deciphering the meaning behind the younger's words. France tenderly extended his fingers and brushed against those lips again to get his attention. "It's easy," he murmured lowly.

Things seemed to slip back into their strange normalcy, because Arthur's face suddenly made that aggravated expression and his voice rose a bit in uncontrolled anger. "Of course you would know, you spout on about that_ l'amour_ crap." His accent was horrible, and he colored slightly when France's smile widened.

"But, _amour_, I can show you…" He took Arthur's hand in his instead, keeping the other to cradle his head, and then brought it up so he could kiss the Englishman's wrist. He kept his smothering eyes locked onto the green ones, which were now becoming a larger contrast to the deepening flush. "We have time…"

Even though he thought the whole thing over rated and incredibly cliché, Arthur found himself stepping forward to close the distance between them and press his mouth awkwardly against France's. He parted and tried again, feeling strange that they normally had some alcohol in their systems before this happened. This time he felt oddly self-conscious; like now, he realized, it finally meant something. He leisurely wrapped his arms around Francis' neck, and moving his mouth; asking for some sort of response.

Happily to oblige, Francis glided his hand out of the circle of arms and then wrapped them flush around the other man's body; he kissed him back this time. After feverishly increasing the amount of chaste kisses, Francis finally pulled apart and slid his tongue along Arthur's lower lip. The ribbon bow that had held his shoulder-length hair from his face was pulled out in a fond manner, and the feel of the hands sneaking through his hair made him shiver slightly.

They both found themselves nipping at each other's mouths, tongues slipping in and out of the kisses, until Arthur was over eagerly clinging to him and trying to melt every inch of them together. Francis didn't want it to end, but he took hold of his jaw and pushed his thumb against his lips.

"Arthur," his voice was breathless, "we should probably take this somewhere else, _non_?"

"Nnh," He made a noise, in what the Frenchman could only assume was agreement, before he led him up the stairs. Even though the other man knew his way about the Victorian home he still let himself be swept up in the thrill of England willingly bringing him to his chambers. It wasn't like many times before when they would have been yelling at each other, or one supporting the drunken other, before they ended up in the room without thinking.

Once they made it to the second last room on the left, Francis pushed his way into the front and was the one to bring them to the bed. He kissed Arthur to soothe him a little before they both sank into a seated position on top of comforter, both feeling the awkwardness of moving things this leisurely.

This speed was like feeling everything in slow motion; it made every sensation twice as pleasant, but also twice as weird. There had never been a time before when they actually had time to think about what they were doing. So finally Francis pulled him down onto the bed, before shifting his position so he was propping himself up and half on top of the British Empire. They had lain there like that for minutes; just Francis' familiar weight pressing him into the comforter, and the passionate kisses as they lazily explored this new-found pace.

Finally a hand untangled from his hair and focused on grabbing the material at the bottom of his shirt between his fingers. He pulled the edges out and then slid his warm hand up into skin. He pushed up and succeeded in pulling out the rest of the shirt in the process before Arthur impatiently pushed his hands away and pulled the article of clothing over his head. Francis smiled against his mouth and then let England pull his own shirt from his body; somehow his jacket had gone missing. Had he pulled it off of him downstairs?

Hands were now exploring up his newly exposed chest, and he kissed his way down to Arthur's jaw and ravished his neck in exquisitely sluggish torture. Finally he latched onto that one spot and let the body beneath his squirm as he began leaving the first of many marks.

"Damnit, Francis…" moaned his adoration beneath him, "I want you to…" It was all that he figured he needed to say, because the next second he was trying to pull off the Frenchman's pants.

"Patience," He sucked on the lobe of his ear before he began kissing his way down his chest, twisting his tongue into each one and driving Arthur mad. He didn't use as much time on his chest as he would have liked because those hands were nearly digging in his shoulders in an attempt to push him down lower.

He cupped the growing hardness in his expert hands and listened to the man below him breathe out heavily through his mouth and make a strangled groan. He already heard the string of curses before they fell out of his lips and he wasted no time in demanding that Francis _get on with it, already_.

He chuckled and, having memorized from experience, undid the offending article of clothing and slipped it down and off, taking the socks with it. He watched Arthur arch up his back in need of friction, and spread his legs a little. Seeing his opportunity the blonde licked and caressed the inside of his thighs, ignoring the length that so desperately needed to be attended to.

Finally after he thought Arthur was going to tell him off again, he pressed his lips to the tip, and felt the body beneath his melt at the touch. He reached over and opened up the bedside drawer- that was where he kept it- ah right. The then pulled out the lube and proceeded to lather his fingers in it. He looked up to make sure Arthur saw what he was doing, and was rewarded with quite the sight. His mouth was open and he was panting heavily, cheeks flushed and eyes glazed over.

He glided his finger down the shaft- leaving a small trail in its wake, and then led it down to his entrance, where he bucked up conveniently so he could slip the finger in. He prepared him as he slowly let his tongue dance across the sensitive flesh. When he hit that part inside him that made him cry out he gave one more nip before spreading the rest of the lube on himself and crawling back up on top of him.

"_Prêt?_" Arthur grabbed his face and smashed their mouths together, hooking his legs around Francis' hips and nearly pushing him inside himself. They both moaned around the kiss, and finally, France grabbed England's hips in warning before sheathing himself fully. They both broke apart; Arthur twisting up and into the strange pain and pleasure, and Francis relishing in the feel around him.

Neither of them were going to last, so he picked a pace and began moving in and out, feeling Arthur grip at his arms to pull him nearer. After the tempo increased he began feeling those hips moving up to meet his and he sighed in pure bliss. He felt the other man arch up in a breathy cry when he hit that bundle of nerves again.

They both quickly fell into a rhythm, and too soon they were beginning the quick decent up to their climax. Francis reached between them and began stroking Arthur in time. He couldn't really decipher which of them came first. Shortly they were both basking in the waves of pleasure, and then slowly floating down from their high. France had to move off of him to lay half on top; his arm and leg still across his lover as they became oriented again.

England would later deny it ever happened, but he pressed his panting mouth into the shoulder of France and wrapped his arm around him. "I love you." He tried to quietly confess without the other nation hearing, but he had no such luck.

"Mmm, me too." They wordlessly crawled under the covers and moved into a more comfortable position for the time being. Francis cradled his body with his chest to Arthur's back and wrapped an arm around his middle. "_Bonne nuit, doux rêves_." It was probably for the best that they had nothing else to talk about, or rather, didn't have the energy to say anything.

x

When Francis awoke in the morning he was disappointed to find that he had no warm body pressed up against his, but he did notice there _was_ a body sitting at the end of the bed. He slowly sat up, running his hand through his bedridden hair and watched as Arthur; freshly showered- Marie would have been thrilled- buttoning up a shirt, while half facing him.

"Arthur…" He blinked his bleary eyes and cleared his throat. "That isn't your shirt."

The Englishman had already had a dash of color on his cheeks, but now he was full out blushing. He finished up the last button and gave Francis a look of disapproval. "You ripped a button off my shirt, so I have to wear one of yours."

Even though he was pretty sure he hadn't done _any such thing_, he still played along and smiled apologetically. "Then you must let me replace it, _mon cher_." He then reached forward and grabbed Arthur's waist before flinging the two of them back into the pillows. "But for now I would love a morning kiss to go with the sight of _mon amant_ wearing my clothes."

"Ah-mant? That's a new one." Arthur's eyebrows furrowed as he tried to remember the little French he knew. He didn't even mention the sudden movement of vertical to horizontal.

Francis leaned in and pressed a firm kiss against his mint-flavored lips and grinned. "My lover." He clarified, and then laughed heartily when Arthur hid his face in his hands. "Oh, you will learn, Arthur, you will learn."And he made sure to keep that promise in the future.

"By the way," murmured Arthur into the kiss sometime later, "we can't go out today."

Francis pulled away and stared at him quizzically. "_Pourquoi?_"

He ducked his head down and made sure Francis wouldn't be able to see his face. "It's still raining."

xXx

THANK YOU TO THE DOLL WHO REVIEWED AND FIXED MY FAIL-FRENCH!!!!

I am so corny it's disgusting. Part 2 of 5ish? It may only be three, I have to see how much more research I want to do in order to pull a Russia and China out of nowhere.

This story literally goes in order of my favorite pairings. France and England, however, holds a special place in my heart because I love history, and these two have enough of it that they don't _even need_ to mention it in Hetalia. Canada's history alone is enough to make a fangirl squeal. Sorry for the fail French. I used to be very fluent. But if you don't use it you lose it.

I had to rewrite most of that- I knew there was a reason I hadn't posted it- I find that I can turn out good plots when I am sleepy, but I defiantly have to go and edit them when I'm awake. I am sorry for any crappy loopholes anyone points out to do with plot or grammar... It occurs to me that I really need to work on those...


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